


At Death's Door.

by Michaelssw0rd, xLostLenore



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, I mean not really but they are seriously injured and think they are dying, John's POV, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Pining, Shaw being awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore/pseuds/xLostLenore
Summary: "Sometimes we say things we don’t mean, at the brink of death. Anything to make those last few moments count. A happy memory for the road.” John looked up at Harold, earnest, and saw him jerk back at the words, as if slapped.“Yes. Yes, perhaps you are right about that.” Harold’s voice was calm, controlled. John hated it.





	At Death's Door.

**Author's Note:**

> **Tee:** A while ago, Leena went on a walk, came back and told me of this BRILLIANT STORY she thought of, and then proceeded to write like a detailed wonderful description of everything. Well then... it had to exist for other people to read as well, didn't it? It was only fair.  
>  And this is the result ♥  
> She has been the prompter, the plot creater, and an incredible beta correcting my sentences, and this story, quite literally, woudn't exist without her!  
> This was a whole lot of fun, (even though I had push myself through the atrocious writer's block and a veil of despair to get it finished.) I hope it's fun to read for you all too.
> 
>  **Leena:** This fic is an endevour i never would have had the guts to even think about very closely if my darling Tee hand't encouraged me and made me completely excel myself. And boy did it take a lot of encouraging btw haha I'm forever grateful for her!  
>  Basically what happened was i thought of the prompt and Tee found the perfect words for it, because that's what she does. I had very little to do with the words, but even so, i never thought i would be a co-author of a story.  
> You wouldn't believe how much fun i had with this! I'm both thrilled and terrified it's finally finished!! :D

John grunted as he lifted himself up, letting the crates support the gun as he took aim. Someone screamed from across the door, and he felt vicious sort of satisfaction in that. It was short lived though, because in the next instant, the gun clicked empty.

“Shit.”

He ducked behind the crates again, resting his back against it, and looked helplessly at his side. He tried to swallow the panic in his chest when he noticed how pale Harold’s face had become.

“I take it, we are out of bullets?” The dry humor made John’s lips twitch despite the situation they had landed themselves in.

“I didn’t think of carrying extra ammo. Wasn’t expecting so many people.” John responded in kind, trying to maintain the lighthearted tone.

Harold chuckled, which ended up in a weak grunt. John moved to help but Harold waved him away. “What, exactly, about this day has gone according to expectations?”

Harold had a point. This Number had been a mess from the start. It took them too long to locate Mr. Bach, and then, once they had determined him to be the victim, stuck in the wrong side of a gambling ring, they had answered his panicked call with as much haste as possible.

The dozen armed men waiting for them outside Mr. Bach’s house had been a nasty surprise. Apparently, their number was not a victim of their activities, he was the leader.

Harold coughed, trying to muffle his pained cry at the movement but this time John was quick. He reached for Harold, checking where he was clutching tightly, and felt his hand come away slick with blood.

“You’re shot.” John muttered, inanely. He could see the signs, the quick, shallow breaths, and pale, sweating, face. He touched his fingers to the pulse point and it was thready.

Shock.

Harold batted away his hands, pressing into the bleeding wound in his side harder. “So are you.”

John had started feeling lightheaded ten minutes ago, and knew he had at least two bullets embedded inside him, and one had grazed his leg. But he was trained to ignore pain, to compartmentalize it and focus on his goal. His goal had been getting Harold to safety. So he had pushed past the pain, and ushered Harold into the warehouse while shielding him with his body and asking him to take cover as he tried to barricade the door as much as he could. John knew he didn’t have long left, considering he didn’t even really feel pain anymore. He had lost too much blood.

“Harold.” He sank down, his strings cut, knowing the one comfort, the fact that Harold was safe, was gone too. Harold seemed to read it on his face because he shook his head slightly.

“Mr. Reese, it’s hardly the most pressing concern at the moment.”

John listened to the sounds from outside the door, the grunts and the clashes and winced. “How long do you think we have?” Harold asked.

“Five minutes. More or less.” Less, probably. But he didn’t want to admit that. He looked around, desperately, wondering if there was somewhere he could hide Harold, shield him until help arrived.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold patted John’s arm, his hand shaking, his voice weak. “It’s alright.” John looked at him, seeing how his eyes were barely staying open. “It’s okay, Mr. Reese.”

“It’s not.” John shook his head, sick with how not-okay it was. He looked at the life bleeding out of the man who had come to mean the world to him, and choked out a meaningless, useless, “I am sorry.”

Harold smiled. He _smiled!_ John didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry at the expression.

“I am not,” Harold admitted quietly.

John stared, confused.

“I realize this is not the most appropriate of timings… but if I had to die, this is not an unpleasant way to go.”

“What? In an abandoned warehouse, by nameless killers, while saving the wrong fucking guy?” John could not believe it, frustration making his words crude.

Harold seemed to be totally unaffected, as he lightly squeezed where his hand was still resting on John’s arm. “Beside you.”

That shut him up. He didn’t know if he heard him right, but the sincerity, evident through even the veil of pain, told John he had not been hallucinating. “Harold…” he muttered, broken.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Reese.”

John closed his eyes. “I would rather you not die at all. Period.”

Harold laughed. It was a weak huff of air but with genuine affection. “So do I. But, I guess… if these are the last few minutes of my life…”

John wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t ready for a good bye. His hand shot up, and covered Harold’s mouth. “No. Don’t,” he begged.

Harold raised a hand and gently removed John’s from his mouth, stroking it soothingly. “John. I… I care deeply about you.” Then he shook his head, chuckling. “No. That’s not the entire truth. I might as well be brave now, at death’s door. I love you.”

John froze. He knew he was gaping, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Harold noticed his expression, and smiled again. “There is no need to look quite so surprised Mr. Reese. And I certainly don’t expect you to reciprocate the sentiment. I just… I wanted you to know.”

John’s heart started beating faster and he was sure it wasn’t the loss of blood making it so. He inched closer to Harold, tentatively touching his face to make him look at John. “You _jackass_ ,” he said, with feeling, because why did Harold had to choose this moment, why couldn’t he have said so before. “Not reciprocating isn’t even an option.”

Harold searched his face, as if looking for the lie, strangely vulnerable. “You… You mean.”

“Yes.”

John swayed towards him, losing his grip on consciousness very quickly. But there was something he wanted _, needed_ , so he clung to reality for a little longer and ignored the shouts of the assailants. It wouldn’t be long now.

He moved closer, his eyes seeking permission, and Harold seemed to read his mind. He nodded, closing his eyes and tilting his face, and John was grateful for every unfortunate moment that led him here, close to Harold, about to kiss him.

His lips hovered above Harold’s, his thumb caressing his cheek, and he drank in the sight. It was worth dying for. The door banged open, and he knew he had bare moments left before he was riddled with bullets. He moved to cover Harold a little more, his body shielding him.

And then he bent closer, his lips barely brushing Harold’s.

“N.Y.P.D. Hands in the air.” Fusco’s distinct voice came from the other end and John withdrew his touch, knowing the moment was lost.

Harold looked at him questioningly, but a moment later Shaw came into view, rushing towards them.

“Fuck,” she exclaimed feelingly, when she saw the state they were in, and got busy taking their vitals and screaming at Fusco to call ambulance.

John should be relieved at the rescue, relieved that their lives were saved.

Why then, he wondered, did he feel so disappointed.

* * *

John lost consciousness when the he saw Shaw tending to Harold, the ambulance sirens ringing loudly. Harold was safe, he could close his eyes.

Later, he remembered the events in broken glimpses.

Shaw cursing when she moved him and noticed his injuries. Paramedics loading Harold on a stretcher. Waking up in the ambulance once, the movements of the vehicle jarring. Controlled panic of ER. Harsh lights of operating room… and then silence.

One thing stood out from the rest, and John couldn’t be sure if it wasn’t just a hallucination. A fever dream. Last wish of the dying.

It was when they were both loaded up on stretchers and rushed towards the ambulance. He had tilted his face, his eyes seeking out Harold, needing to make sure he is okay. He looked to his right and saw him, looking back at John. Instinctively, he felt himself extending his hand, reaching out to touch, to make sure. Before he succumbed to the darkness again, he could almost bet he saw Harold’s hand mimic his gesture, the longing on his face reflecting his own.

* * *

John woke up in an unfamiliar place. Before opening his eyes, he stayed still, getting a feel of the situation, wondering if he was in enemy territory. It took him a few moments to recognize the smell of the place, and the periodic beeping of monitors.

Hospital.

And then it all came rushing back. Immediately his hand went to the IV line in his left arm, aiming to pull it out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you?” A cold voice froze his hand.

He pulled back, looking around till he saw her. Shaw was sitting in a chair, leaning forward, unreadable expressions on her face.

“What?” Reese croaked, suddenly realizing how parched his throat was.

“If you pull out your IV, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” she warned.

John raised both his hands in mock defeat, suppressing the wince. She saw it anyway, coming over and peering at his bandages. “You really were a touch and go back there. You crashed once on the way, flat lining twice in the OR. We really thought we lost you.” She frowned at him. “When did you get so phenomenally stupid, Reese?”

Ah. So it was concern hardening her tone, not anger. John had to suppress a smile at that, not wanting to trigger her violent tendencies and receive a punch instead. But…

“Finch…”

He looked around again, trying to sit up. Shaw placed a hand on his chest, pushing him down, answering before he had even formed a question; before he had even began to dread. “He made it. Woke up a few hours ago. Unsurprisingly, he asked about you too, right after opening his eyes. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t have an easy answer.”

“How’s he?” Reese was trained enough to know alive did not mean okay, and if his negligence cost Harold anything… he couldn’t think past that. Harold had to be okay. He _had_ to be.

“He had a gut perforation, so it’s not a cakewalk. But we got the bullet out. Could’ve been worse. You probably acted like a sacrificial shield and protected him from the worst of it… I don’t know whether to thank you, or punch you.”

John relaxed back into the mattress, the fight leaving his body, as he let himself feel how tired he was. He had just woken up, but already he felt his consciousness slipping.

“You would’ve done the same thing.” He murmured.

His eyes were slipping shut, but he could swear he saw her smile at that. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

* * *

 

Shaw was around the next few times he opened his eyes. Even though he never stayed conscious for long, Shaw reassured him that Harold was recovering adequately. Something about the look on his face also made her reiterate that he was strictly confined to his bed- medical orders. But he needed to see for himself. He remembered the too warm blood on his hands, the light slowly fading from Harold’s eyes, and something in his heart was disbelieving his good fortune. He couldn’t be sure until he saw it for himself.

So when he woke up the next time, and noticed he was alone for once, John did the only thing he knew would help. Slowly, he slipped out of his bed, taking out his IV lines. He had to grab the wall for support, his injuries screaming at the abuse. He ignored them as he took a tentative step forward, followed by another.

It got easier then, suppressing pain for more important things having become second nature during his time in the military. A nurse passing by stopped in alarm when she saw him, but he straightened his spine and put on a smile.

“Excuse me. Which room is Mr. Wren in?” He took a wild guess, considering that was the alias Harold used most of the time. At her blank look he elaborated. “Middle age. Glasses. Was a gunshot victim?”

That registered. She hesitated for a bit, wondering whether to answer, but he gave her an earnest look. Something about his medical gown and his expressions must’ve convinced her of his harmlessness because she smiled back, and pointed him towards where Harold was.

He stopped outside the door, his palm resting on it. What would he say to him? A sorry wouldn’t cut it, and would not be welcome. Harold would tell him it was not his fault… despite all the  evidence pointed towards it. He had been careless, and look where it landed them. And then there was the other thing.

‘ _I care deeply about you._ ’ He could hear the words clear as day. ‘ _I love you.’_

John shook his head self-deprecatingly, trying to dislodge the echo of the memory, of Harold’s earnest eyes. He had been dying, losing blood fast. Holding him accountable for a few whispered words of desperation, when he had been clutching onto anything he could and trying making his last few minutes count, would be unfair at best. Cruel. Both to Harold, and to himself.

And yet, he knew that try as he might, he wouldn’t be able to forget those words. He would cling to them, selfishly, even as he burned himself with the intensity of all he can never have. It was worth it.

No.

He wouldn’t talk to Harold about that. He would let him make the choice himself, and never bring it up if that’s what Harold wanted.

Still not knowing what he was going to say, but unable to linger outside any longer, he stepped inside. He need not have worried.

Harold was lying in his bed, fast asleep. John leaned against the doorway, more in consideration for his quickening heartbeat than his injuries, and watched the steady rise and fall of Harold’s chest. He looked small, without the suits that he wore as an armor, and John felt a surge of protectiveness towards the man. Cautiously, he moved into the room and stood beside the bed. Even drugged, he was sure Finch slept light, and dragging a chair would wake him up.

Already, the knot in his chest was loosening, by proximity, by the sound of Harold’s breathing. He had woken up to Harold’s breathing across their still open com-link more times than he could count, and fallen asleep while deliberately not turning it off. Those were the best nights of sleep he had ever had, surrounded by the safety and comfort that Harold’s presence always carried.

In his sleep, Harold frowned, his forehead crinkling and John had to curl his hand into a fist to not give in to the urge to smooth it out. Reminding himself that he was not allowed. But Harold had said… he had.

No.

But even still, John suddenly, vividly, realized he had never said it himself.  The words were too much to contain then, clawing out of his throat. “I love you.” He whispered, safe in the knowledge that Harold couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t look at him with eyes full of pity.

Finch was shifting in his bed, pain showing on his face with the movement, before settling again. John stood quietly for another few moments, watching, letting the uncertainty and the fear that had been his companion since he woke up, loosen its hold on his heart. Harold was okay. Everything else would be too.

He uncurled his hand and brushed his fingers against Harold’s frail hand, swift and fleeting. Then he turned away before Harold could wake up. The warmth of the touch lingered on his skin long after he had returned to his bed.

* * *

John rushed up the stairs, taking two in one stride, ignoring the protests of his healing wounds. Once at the top, he took a deep breath, and brushed his coat. It wouldn’t look good to show how anxious he was.

He stepped inside, his gait deliberately casual, and looked at the man sitting behind the computer screens. Harold was dressed in a pristine suit, like usual; only the paleness of his face, and the extra stiffness in the way he held himself reminded Reese of his recent brush with death. He ignored John’s pointed throat clearing, not even acknowledging his presence, as he focused on typing.

“Finch.” John called out and his fingers paused. John wondered if he would ignore him again, but then he sighed, looking up.

“Mr. Reese.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” In answer Harold just raised his eyebrow so John pushed. “You had a bullet inside you, not two weeks ago. You should be resting.”

“I am sure this is an instance of the pot calling the kettle black.” Harold had a formidable raised eyebrows look, but John had seen him bleeding out, and had been helpless to stop it.

“You almost died.” He breathed, hushed. It wasn’t cocky or self-confident. It was like he felt: small and scared.

Harold seemed to understand that, because his face softened. “Yet, I didn’t.”

John swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment, wondering when reality started being more unbelievable than dreams. It was strange to have everything you want in the world right in front of you.

“And Mr. Reese, I didn’t get to express how grateful-”

John shook his head, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. He didn’t deserve any gratitude. Mercifully, Harold stopped mid-sentence and looked at him in confusion. “Mr. Reese?”

“Do we have a new number then?” He cleared his throat, speaking past the emotions clogging it. Harold frowned for a moment, looking at John like he was solving a puzzle, before nodding once.

“Indeed. It’s a 54 year old lady by the name of…”

And John pushed down everything, focusing on the information Harold was providing. For a while- a few minutes that stretched out like hours, dreadful and terrifying- he had not been sure if he would ever have this again, and he had realized how much this meant to him. Saving the numbers, bent over the screens, with Harold by his side.

Fiercely, he vowed to protect it, no matter what the cost. He tried not to let his eyes linger on Harold’s face, tried to avoid watching him, and because of that he missed how Harold was watching him too, with something akin to longing etched on his face.

* * *

After Reese had tracked down the Number, who happened to be the perpetrator, and handed her off to the respective authorities- with minimal damage to himself, no matter what Finch said- it was already late in the evening. John headed back to library, without conscious thought, and picked up takeaway Chinese on his way.

Eating with Harold, in companionable silence felt like the perfect reward for a day well spent. The weight of the unspoken things loomed heavy over them, but every time Harold tried to open his mouth to say something, John interrupted with one question or another. He wanted to preserve the illusion of everything being the same, for just a little while longer.

Harold sighed eventually, giving up, and John grinned. When he stretched to pick up a glass, Harold gasped.

“What?” He watched quizzically and Harold got up from his chair, going towards a corner. He came back with a first aid kit.

John looked at his side and grimaced at the spreading red stain. He had pulled his stitches; typical. He tried to reach for the kit, to patch himself up, but Harold batted his hand away and gave him a stern glare.

“Sit down, Mr. Reese. I believe you have already done enough damage.” Disapproval was dripping from his tone, and John didn’t want to aggravate it. He obediently shrugged off his shirt, and let Harold change the bandage, his hands careful and gentle.

When he was putting on the clean one, his fingers lingered, the expressions on his face telling John that he was upset.

“I am sorry.” He never wanted to be cause of the sadness in Harold’s eyes.

Harold looked at him sorrowfully. “The blame for this, I am afraid, lies with me. I should not have let you get back into the field so soon.”

And that, frankly, was ridiculous. John told him just as much. “It’s not like you could’ve stopped me.” He added. “What we do, the Numbers, that’s important.”

“So are you!” Harold retorted. “I just wish you could see that.”

John was taken aback at the vehemence in his words, and Harold stepped away, rubbing a hand across his face. “Harold…” he said, trying not to spook him. Upon hearing his name, Harold sighed, looking exhausted.

“I am sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t keep walking on eggshells around you.” He turned around to face John, and John felt his heart sink. This was it. This was where Harold told him everything had been a mistake. “I should explain…”

John stood up, quickly, desperate to stop it. It was too soon. Harold’s words were still too clear in his head, their taste too sweet. “You don’t have to.”

“I do.” Harold was adamant. John looked at him, and nodded. So be it. Harold took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “Back when we were- when I was- back in the warehouse…”

“When you thought we were dying.”

“Yes. I believe I owe you an apology. I said some things I shouldn’t have. I behaved in an appalling manner. I had no right to burden you like that…”

John didn’t know he had a heart left to break, but he could feel it shattering nonetheless. He looked down, unable to look at Harold, and told himself this was Harold being kind. Even if it felt like a knife wound, bleeding and raw.

“Harold… you were shot. Bleeding out.” He couldn’t have Harold blame himself for that. Blood loss was as good a hallucinogenic as any.

“That is no excuse.” The distaste in Harold’s voice- as if the very idea was abhorrent- stung.

“You will find that it is as good an excuse as any. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean at the brink of death. Anything to make those last few moments count. A happy memory for the road.”

John looked up at Harold, earnest, and saw him jerk back at the words, as if slapped. John wondered about the wounded look on his face, the pain, before it closed off into a mask. John found that he preferred anger and scorn over that. It had been a long time since Harold hid behind his shields in front of him, and that felt more like a rejection than his words had.

“Yes. Yes, perhaps you are right about that.” Harold’s voice was calm, controlled. John hated it.

“Don’t worry about it, alright? We are okay.” John smiled. It was shaky, he knew, and hardly believable, but his wounds were too raw to cover up just yet. With time, he would learn to live with them.

“I just… I would be grateful if you could forgive, and hopefully forget, my inexcusable slip of professionalism. I promise you, it won’t happen again. I don’t want our working relationship to suffer because of this, Mr. Reese.” Harold looked worried, biting his lip. “Despite everything else, I quite value you as a partner.”

John had to close his eyes and take a shuddering breath. Forgetting it was something that wasn’t even an option, but he could choose to bury it deep inside, a flame to warm him up on the cold nights, and hope it won’t burn him alive. He told himself this was enough. It surely was more than he deserved. He looked in Harold’s eyes, and with conviction, promised. “It won’t.”

Because it didn’t matter how hard it got and how much it hurt. It didn’t matter how difficult it was to pretend he didn’t want anything else, when for a precious few seconds he had felt what it would be like to have it all… He would choose to be by Harold’s side despite it all. Anything else was unimaginable.

* * *

John liked to think that things went back to normal after that. A brush with death was nothing new for him, and he could bounce right back. Harold’s brush with death was what he blamed for the extra protectiveness in the next few weeks. A bullet to his partner’s gut had put things in startling perspective for him. He had always known Harold was important to him… essential. And yet, he had not realized just how much.

His routine hardly changed. He still brought Harold tea in the morning, along with trip to a bakery. He still tried to linger, be invited for dinner together. John had not stopped liking spending most of his free time in the library. But now, everything was tinged with just a touch more devotion. John was not to blame if he relished being able to provide some comfort to Harold, if he craved spending more time in the warmth of his company. For a while, for a few awful minutes, he had thought he would never have it again.

But he couldn’t ignore the heartache that accompanied every one of his gestures any longer. He couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to be more than they were, more than work colleagues, more than friends, after being given a tantalizing glimpse into it. Every time he laid a cup of tea on Harold’s table, he imagined how different things would be if he could also bend and kiss Harold good morning. Whenever they had dinner together, he couldn’t help how his eyes lingered on Harold’s lips, wondering if they would taste like salt and vinegar. How much more interesting stakeouts would be if he was just allowed to hold Harold’s hand.

Many a times, he woke up, with a hollow feeling in his chest that felt like an open wound. The crackle of his earpiece, along with Harold’s voice calling, _Mr. Reese_ , was almost enough to fill it. Almost.

Two weeks in, dealing with a Number together, Shaw took one look at him after he ended the call with Harold, and sighed.

“You two having a lover’s spat?” she asked, and when she saw John’s baffled look, smirked. “It’s obvious that you’re pining. It’s completely unbecoming.”

John took offense to that. He was not pining. He was just in the process of convincing his heart to stop wanting the things it couldn’t have. It was proving a little more difficult than expected, but it hardly warranted being called pining.

It didn’t help that there was a certain stiffness to Harold’s demeanor that he had never seen before. No. That was a lie. He had seen it before, but it had been a long time ago, when they had first met, and Harold had not learned to trust him. It was jarring to realize how much Harold had relaxed around him, only when it was taken away. John missed the easy smiles, and the grimaces of pain, and the occasional jokes, like he would miss a limb. Their conversations over the coms had become stilted and matter of fact, their team-work not suffering, but somehow even the victories felt a little like losing the war.

John supposed he was to blame. Harold must be uncomfortable by his regard, not wanting to encourage him and lead him on. So he tried not to stare too much, tried not to let his gaze linger past the point of appropriateness, and his voice color with all the unspoken emotions. They were not allowed, unwanted.

And because he was deliberately not looking, he completely missed the longing looks Harold threw his way when he was distracted. He missed how Harold sighed every time John left the library, and how his face was pinched, sadness seeping through, as he tried not to miss their usual banter. John was so focused on not making Harold uncomfortable, that he didn’t manage to see all the ways Harold was trying to do the very same thing.

He was so miserable in his want, in the knowledge of things he couldn’t have, that Harold’s melancholy escaped his notice.

* * *

Reese looked at Shaw suspiciously when she slid another shot towards him after he downed his last.

“What?”

“Just wondering why you’re doing this?”

“Doing this?” Shaw gestured around the bar, and at the shots lined in front of them. “How else do you celebrate successfully saving three Numbers in the same day?”

Well, usually John celebrated it with Harold, either by Harold selecting a fancy new restaurant they had not tried yet, or by ordering takeaway meals and eating in the library. On the rare good days, they had broken out their favorite movies too, playing them in the background.

But John had touched his earpiece as Fusco escorted the angry ex-boyfriend away, and asked if Harold wanted him to pick something on his way back. Harold had gotten quiet, even the clicking of keys stopped, and then he had sighed and told him to go home instead. His, _“I am tired Mr. Reese, and we have both had a trying day. I don’t think it would be advisable to, as they say, tempt fate. We can do with a little rest,”_ had felt like a gut punch, and John wondered if the stab wound he had barely missed an hour ago would’ve hurt less. As it was, there was an aching pain in his chest that followed the static of the disconnected call.

That was when Shaw had bumped into him and asked if he wanted to get sloshed. Dreading the emptiness of his apartment, and not wanting to face the hollowness in his heart just yet, he had agreed.

“Good man!” Shaw praised as he downed yet another shot, sliding the next one. Everything considered, she looked far too innocent for it to be real. She was bound to have some hidden agenda, but John was already feeling pleasantly light headed enough to not care.

She also looked far too sober.

When John squinted at her, wondering why she wasn’t even tipsy, she grinned and took a sip of her fruity cocktail. “Not everyone is a lightweight,” she said, as an answer to his unasked question.

John shrugged and took a gulp of his third- or was it fourth- beer. He was beginning to enjoy the way he wasn’t thinking about Harold for once. Not about his smiles, or the curve of his cupid’s bow, and how absolutely soft his lips looked. After what felt like months, he could let go of the thought of Harold’s sharp eyes and the crow feet around them, all the more prominent when he was repressing a smile…

Oh _dammit._

He motioned the bartender to pour him another shot. He obviously had not had enough alcohol, if he was still daydreaming about Harold. From his side, Shaw hooted in appreciation.

John gave her another sidelong glance and grumbled. “I have no idea what you’re playing at Shaw, but right now, I don’t care.”

She smiled at that, and it was oddly gentle. Which, considering she didn’t do gentle, ought to have warned John. “I know.” She patted his arm. “Drink.”

And that, John thought, was excellent advice, and he willingly followed it.

A while later, when the world was slightly blurring in front of his eyes, Shaw waved a hand in front of his face. He blinked at it, and then smiled wide. “Hi.”

Shaw looked at him calculatingly and then nodded, “It will do.”

John turned towards her, squinting. Something in her tone was off, and why was she not drunk at all despite drinking alongside him? Her alcohol tolerance could not be _that high_! He frowned at that, but the thought left his brain as quickly as it arrived, leaving him pleasantly dazed.

“What?”

“I am sick of all the moping so I am taking it upon myself to remedy it.”

John looked at her, confused. Those were far too many words to decipher at the moment. She sighed and asked, “What’s going on between you and Harold?”

The sudden reminder of the very name he was trying to forget felt jarring. He shook his head, melancholy coloring his tone, and sighed. “Harold.”

Shaw stared, and then abruptly sat up straighter. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Why won’t you two just talk?” John watched as she touched something in her ear, and then murmured. “I hope you’re listening, Finch.”

John straightened, trying to shake off the fog, concerned he was missing something important. But Shaw patted his arm again, derailing his thoughts by saying. “Why don’t you tell me about Harold, huh?”

“Harold.” He sighed again, the name tasting like a drug on his lips. “He’s just so...beautiful.” He looked at Shaw for confirmation, grinning when she nodded. “So… pretty, and he’s a genius too, and his voice is just…” He lost himself in the memory of Harold’s voice.

“Uh-huh,” Shaw murmured, which John took as encouragement and continued.

“And sometimes he smiles and it’s so beautiful, and then does this eyebrow thing.” John tried to imitate the eyebrow thing but he wasn’t Harold so he didn’t succeed. “And his eyes are so… so…”

“Beautiful?” Shaw asked, and John looked at her with wide eyes and nodded.

She winced, and scrunched up her face. John smiled sadly at that. “I know. It’s pretty pathetic isn’t it? Falling for your boss.” When she starts shaking her head, he continues. “At least he thinks so.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He told me.” John assured her. Suddenly he found the need to be drunker, the pain in his heart returning. “Told me he didn’t want our working relationship to suffer because of my completely unprofessional feelings.”

“Is that what he said?”

“It’s what he meant.” John could decipher the most complex codes, and Harold’s words weren’t all that complex to decode at all.

“I don’t think you’ve got it right…”

“You should’ve heard him Shaw. Should’ve heard how disgusted he was with all this.” He grabbed his beer and took a long gulp, swallowing the bitter aftertaste of rejection. “Told me he was sorry for _burdening_ me. Begged me to _forget_ about it.” She stayed quiet for awhile, and John murmured. “As if I could, even if I wanted to.”

“But… the warehouse. I thought you were…”

“The warehouse.” John laughed bitterly. That was when everything went to shit, and Shaw was clever enough to recognize that. “Was _an inexcusable slip of professionalism._ ” He repeated Harold’s word, imitating the way he spoke them. Shaw flinched at the vehemence in his voice. “The man almost dies, but what he regrets the most is … that.”

With that he slumped back in his seat, feeling defeated in a way he didn’t even feel after CIA tried to kill him. If a bunch of gangsters attacked him now, he wondered if he would want to defend himself.

“John…” The concern in her voice made him look at her and dredge up a reassuring smile.

“I love him, Shaw. I do. More than I can say. But he doesn’t feel the same way.” She made an aborted move towards… what? A hug? Something. He shook his head sadly. “It is what it is. I will get over it. It’s nothing I can’t handle, even if it’s taking longer than I expected. You don’t need to concern yourself.”

Saying it out loud unwound some of the tightness in his chest, making it easier to breathe. He looked at Shaw, and she was opening her mouth to say something. John raised a hand and stopped her before she could begin. “Let it go. We are here to celebrate, aren’t we?” And with that he motioned the bartender again.

Shaw shrugged, “You’re wrong. But alright… I got what I came for anyway.” And then, she muttered something under her breath, not loud enough for Reese to hear. He was too busy drowning his unrequited love in alcohol anyway.

The rest of the night was a blur, but he vaguely remember Shaw helping him back to his apartment and dropping him on the bed. She left for a while then, and he had almost dozed off by the time she returned. She placed a glass of water on the table, and took off his shoes. When she was pulling away, she looked at him earnestly and muttered.

“Sleep John. Everything will be okay.”

In that moment, with ache in his heart, and his mind foggy, he believed her.

* * *

John woke up with a foul taste in his mouth, an aching head, and a lingering sense of dread. He had overslept. He couldn’t remember the last time he did that. Groaning, he sat up, gratefully drank from the glass of water on the bedside table, grimacing at the taste. He was brushing his teeth when the memories of the previous night registered.

He stared at his reflection, mouth open, foam trickling from the side, and his eyes reflecting his horror.

_Damn._

He had confessed.

To Shaw! She would never let him live it down.

He spit the froth out, watching the water drain it away, and hung his head in dismay.

Well… _fuck._

There was nothing he could do about it now, and he resolved to pretend it never happened. He could ignore the sly comments as long as she refrained from making them in front of Harold, and he could expect that much decency from her.  At least he had not confessed while Harold was around. He should be grateful for that.

Taking a deep breath, he calmed his heart, which was racing in turmoil, and looked back at his reflection. It wasn’t like Harold didn’t know it already. A wry smile tugged at his lips… There was nothing to lose here. He had lost his heart ages ago, and his dignity not long after.

John dressed quickly, ignoring the ache behind his eyes and in the back of his head. Trying not to wince at the bright lights and the noise of the traffic as he made his way towards the library. He had to pause and take another fortifying breath before stepping inside, feeling like the world had become more brittle somehow, now that someone other than him was aware of the turmoil inside him. The smell of books instantly calmed him, once inside.

Here, at least, he would always belong. By Harold’s side, even if not in his arms. He had said so himself, told him he valued him as a partner. On bad days, he desperately clung to that reassurance.

Harold froze when he entered their main work room, his spine stiffening. He didn’t turn around, and John did not move closer. They had learned this awkward dance around each other, both giving each other space.

“Mr. Reese…” Harold acknowledged in the end. There was a tremor in his voice, but John wasn’t sure if he was projecting his own emotions.

“Finch.” He nodded his head, in lieu of a greeting. “Is there a new number?”

Harold glanced at him. John couldn’t read the expressions on his face, before he looked away again. “Yes.” Definitely a tremor. “A stay-at-home mother, Mrs. Evans… I called Miss Shaw. She is currently surveilling her, trying to find a motive.”

John spent a moment feeling grateful that she was away, and another feeling stung that he wasn’t the first one Harold called. “Alright. Send me the address. I will join her.”

“No!”

John was startled at the urgency in his tone, and when he looked at Harold, it seemed he was too. Sheepish, with his eyes downcast, Harold said, “I must apologize.”

“It’s alright.” John swallowed heavily.

“It’s not.” Harold shook his head, still looking down. “It’s… not.”

“Finch…”

“I think it’s about time we stop dancing around this topic… don’t you?”

John’s face shuttered close, his defenses up. He was not an idiot. “You heard.”

Harold nodded. John stepped back, recoiling at the bubbling nausea inside him, the betrayal. Harold turned and looked at him, but John’s vision was blurred, his ears ringing. This could not be happening.

Harold turned around to look at him balefully. “I am sorry.” He stood up, his shoulders tense, and eyes apologetic. John shook his head in disbelief and took another involuntary step back.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harold exclaimed, and then looked down again, murmuring, “but I suppose it’s no excuse. I acted inexcusably, and I understand if you never forgive me. It just took me off guard. Miss Shaw…” He glanced up again and then continued, “It doesn’t matter. I… it’s my fault, I should’ve turned it off. I shouldn’t have….and I can’t change it now, but in my defense I didn’t know what it was about until it was too late. I apologize for encroaching on your privacy like that. It’s unforgivable but…” Harold took a tentative step towards him, backing him some more.

John clenched his hands into fist. “I need to go.”

“No!” Harold extended his hand, making him shirk. “Please.”

The pleading tone paused his steps, even though everything inside him was straining to run, to get away from here. He compromised by taking another step back, the wall against his back now. He needed the support. When Harold was sure he wasn’t going away he opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

“I must admit I feel a little at loss here. I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say Harold… you made that abundantly clear.” John forced the words past the constriction in his throat.

“That’s where you’re wrong-”

“I am sorry you had to deal with the _unpleasantness_ of hearing-”

“I told you I loved you!”

Sudden quiet followed the words, not even the sound of their breaths audible, as they waited for the echo of the words to fade.

“You did,” John whispered, the sound strangely loud in the utter stillness of the moment. “And then you apologized for it.”

“That was because I thought you didn’t reciprocate!” Harold threw up his hands in frustration, one of them running through his hair anxiously. “I am afraid I might have mismanaged this situation quite drastically.”

“What are you trying to say, Harold?” John’s heart beat in his throat, so he was surprised any voice came out at all.

“I thought I have always been quite obvious in my affections, and then… later, you said all those things about not meaning what people say when they’re afraid of dying and clouded senses and I thought you were giving me a way out, letting me down easy. I mean, there’s no way you had been unaware, right? There’s no way you didn’t know.” Harold spoke really fast, the way he did when he was nervous. He looked up at John then, his eyes full of emotional turmoil. “How could you not know? How could you think I didn’t love you?”

“But you said…”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated!” Harold cut in, his words sharp. “I didn’t want to put you in a position where you had to humor my pitiful crush. I never could’ve imagined that you might be inclined, that you might have the slightest desire for something similar. And we were dying. You were dying, and smiling so kindly, I just, quite pathetically, didn’t want to die without you knowing, without saying it. And then, later, you were so apprehensive, that I was sure I had overstepped my bounds. But then yesterday, you said all those things to Miss Shaw and I...”

“Harold!” John interrupted, hope clawing at his heart, asking him to open it up for the possibility, for the inevitable pain that might soon follow when the possibility was crushed. He had to know, he had to be sure, this time. “Harold… do you know what you’re saying?”

Harold looked up at him, chewing his lip. “Oh what the hell,” he cursed, before stepping into John’s personal space, quickly grabbing his face and bringing it down to press his lips against John’s. It was a sudden, barely there and gone, brush of skin. Harold rested his forehead against his then, breathing loudly. John was struck silent, stunned.

After a few moments, Harold chuckled. “I do hope I haven’t gotten it all wrong.” Harold tried to pull away, but John’s arms tightened around him. He had not even realized when they had come to encircle him. Still too overwhelmed for words, John his shook his head lightly. Harold relaxed, seeming to understand, and gave him time to gain back his composure.

It didn’t mean he stopped his verbal assault though. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. I am in love with you, have been for quite a long time actually. This time, you don’t have the excuse of blood loss or near-death to disregard it. I don’t want there to be any more misunderstandings.”

“I… Harold, I-”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Harold’s breath caressed his cheek. “I heard what you said to Miss Shaw. I know. You don’t have to, not unless you’re ready.”

John gulped. He wanted to. “I love you,” he whispered, low and vulnerable. “I love you.”

“I know that now.” Harold’s hand came to cup his cheek, his thumb stroking his jaw. John let out a sob, which might even be a whimper, before moving and pressing his lips to Harold’s again, this time long and lingering. Harold let him.

When he pulled away, reluctantly and not very far, Harold smiled at him dazedly. “I have been wanting to do that for a really long time.”

John reciprocated the sentiment, but he was too curious to resist. “How long exactly?”

Harold laughed, short and abrupt, before letting the hand on John’s cheek sneak into his hair. “Too long.” When John made an unimpressed noise, he amended. “Maybe since the first time you pressed me against a wall and accused me of being a bored rich guy with stalker tendencies.”

John was honestly surprised. “That long huh?”

“Well, you _are_ rather inescapably attractive.” A smile, and then, “It’s hardly fair that you have a heart to match it. It’s no wonder I fell in love with you. Maybe I had been, even before we first talked, but it took me a little while to realize that.”

The he tugged his hair, kissing him again, slow and exploratory, leaving them both breathless. He pulled away only to mumble, “Just so that you’re never unsure about this again,” before diving back in again.

It was a sentiment John could totally get behind, as he let himself be consumed by Harold’s touch, and rejoiced in the gentle incineration.

* * *

By the time Shaw came back from surveilling the Number, they were both decent, drunk and languid on the shared kisses. John was lounging in his chair, and Harold was busy typing.

“So, I followed her around for hours, and all I have-” She stepped inside and froze.

John glanced up from his book, looking at her questioningly. Her mouth was open, her eyes flitting from John to Harold, and John could almost see the gears turning in her head. A slow smile spread on her lips, her eyes widening. She whistled, making Harold turn and stare as well.

“It worked!” she grinned, triumphant.

John groaned.

“Miss Shaw... “

“Finally.” She clapped her hands, rubbing them in delight. “I would ask for the details but,” she looked at John and grimaced. “I’d rather not know.”

“Miss Shaw…”

“Well then, I will just pat myself on the back for a job well done, because neither of you will do it, emotionally constipated bastards that you are.”

“Shaw!” John interrupted her this time. “Shut up.”

“And will just take Bear with me today, as a reward.” She snapped her fingers, the dog obediently bounding towards her. “You’re welcome.” She winked, before getting busy with putting the collar on the dog.

“Miss-”

“Goodbye, Finch. Bye, John.” She waved, walking away with Bear, as abruptly as she had entered.

“What exactly just happened?” Harold sighed, reclining in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

John smiled, getting up from his chair and pulling Harold out of his. “Shaw just headed home. We should too, considering she just made sure we are alone by taking Bear with her.”

“How considerate of her.” Harold scoffed lightly, but there was a smile on his lips too.

“I’d say we need to send her a thank you bouquet.”

Harold had a calculating look on his face, before nodding. “I will see what I can do.”

John laughed, the sound coming easy, the heavy weight he had been carrying on his chest having vanished. He was afraid he would float away. “I’m sure you will.”

And then, because he was only human, and he was finally allowed, he kissed Harold again, before pulling him towards the door. The nearest safe house was five minutes away, and there was a comfortable bed. He had waited so long, he could wait a little more.

* * *

 


End file.
